That evening, Guylain went over to Giuseppe’s. Sometimes he needed more than a goldfish to share his feelings. For nearly half an hour, he talked about the USB stick, explained how he had devoured the seventy-two documents it contained. He told Giuseppe excitedly about Julie; how the young woman wrote about her day-to-day life in little notebooks surrounded by 14,717 white tiles. The old man listened attentively and took in every word of what his friend was telling him.
‘How can I find her? I don’t know anything about her,’ lamented Guylain. Giuseppe smiled.
‘You know a lot more about her than you think. Don’t be so defeatist,’ Giuseppe reassured him. ‘Do you think my legs grew back in a day?’ he said, pointing to the shelves bowing under the weight of the Freyssinets. ‘Have you got the stick with you? Download those files for me and I’ll have a good look at them. There can’t be that many toilets in shopping centres that have attendants.’
When Guylain left, Giuseppe pumped his hand profusely. ‘I’ve got a feeling in my bones that you too will succeed in your quest,’ murmured the old man with a smile.
18
Every Thursday evening, as the flashily dressed celebrity presenter with his smug, smart-arse face appeared on screen, Guylain telephoned his mother. Why Thursday and not another day, he couldn’t say. That was just how it was, for no special reason. Over time, the Thursday evening phone call had become a ritual which he was duty-bound to honour. He knew she was there, comfortably ensconced in the living-room armchair, staring at the TV without really seeing it, locked in a permanent stupor since the departure of her husband that day in August 1984.
Twenty-eight years had now passed, but Guylain still couldn’t say the word ‘dead’ when he spoke of his father. A child at the time, Guylain had visited his father for the last time a few days after the accident. He remembered an inert body lying in a hospital bed. For several long minutes, Guylain had been mesmerized by the tube entering his father’s mouth. He had gazed in fascination at his face, which trembled with each movement of the infernal ventilator to the right of the bed. A man in a white coat had come to fetch his grandfather and had spoken of an imminent departure amid a stream of whisperings. So when two days later the little boy had seen on the TV those helmeted men in their impressive orange spacesuits waving to the crowds from the top of the gangway, his heart had leapt. Their lowered visors made it impossible to see their faces. They all had the same tube he had seen in the hospital coming out of their helmets. He was absolutely certain that his father was among those forms wading clumsily towards the hatch before vanishing inside the belly of the great spaceship. At 12.41 on 30 August 1984, before Guylain’s eyes, the Discovery space shuttle took off from its launch pad with a deafening roar, carrying the six men up into space.
And when one hour later his grandmother came to tell him in an anguished voice that his father had departed, the only two words he could say in reply were ‘I know’. All these years, the eight-year-old boy inside him had clung to the absurd hope that this father who was roving from star to star would come back one day. Nothing, not even the shovelfuls of earth thudding against the lacquered wood of the coffin, had managed to convince him otherwise.
His mother never answered before the third ring. Three rings, the time it took to rouse herself from her absence.
‘Hello, Mum.’
‘Oh! It’s you.’
He smiled. Every week, she came out with the same reply as a prelude to the great game of questions and answers. What’s the weather like in Paris? Had the latest transport strike caused him problems? Questions which he answered in the same evasive manner, already fearing the moment when he was going to have to lie to his own mother. The dreaded subject came up, as always: ‘Still working in books?’
His mother knew nothing. Nothing of the pulping plant nor of his job of evil murderer. Years of deception, keeping quiet about the horror and inventing a better job, building an artificial life, just for her. The life of a Guylain who ate and drank things other than tasteless cereals and insipid tea; a Guylain who did not spend his days reducing tonnes of books to mush. This Guylain Vignolles did not share his life with a goldfish. Assistant publications manager at a print works, the Guylain he portrayed every Thursday evening, embraced life with open arms. The lie became more and more elaborate with each phone call, and each time he dreaded deep down that she would eventually get wind of his deceit when he faltered, despite the 400 kilometres between them. Guylain only went back to the village once or twice a year. Brief trips during which he spent most of his time escaping. Escaping his mother’s questions; escaping unhappy memories and all the people who still called him Vilain Guignol, reviving the painful recollections it had taken him years to shake off; escaping a grave in which he had never believed.
And again this evening, as he put the receiver back after having pulled the wool over his mother’s eyes once more, Guylain was unable to hold back any longer the rush of bile that assailed his throat.
19
The grey of the concrete has disappeared under the layer of slush covering the works floor. Ankles sunk in the foul-smelling sludge, he and Brunner are slinging heaped shovelfuls of muck into the Zerstor’s funnel without a break. The Thing gobbles up all this mess, emitting a series of gross, squelchy slurps. Every ten seconds, its metal arse lays a new book which flies up towards the ceiling, its pages fluttering. Already, hundreds of books are swirling around the warehouse in an ominous swarm above the men’s heads, making a deafening racket. From time to time, a book breaks away from the horde and plunges downwards, then corrects its path and whistles past their heads. A volume that is fatter than the others hits Brunner plumb on the side of his head. The great beanpole crumples into the sludge-filled trench. The poor man struggles frantically, but only becomes mired more deeply with each movement. The windows of Kowalski’s office have been shattered into smithereens by the relentless assault of the flying book squadrons. Trapped in his tower, Fatso is unable to do anything. Despite the din, the terrible sound of books thumping against the boss’s flabby flesh reaches Guylain’s ears. Kowalski’s howls echo through the works for nearly a minute before dying down for good. Guylain doesn’t see it coming. A dictionary hurtling at full speed hits his right knee, knocking him over. A second breaks the handle of the shovel clean in two. He topples over head first, howling with pain. The sludge gushes into his gaping mouth, filling his lungs. He is choking. He gropes for something to hold on to until his fingers encounter a rope that appears out of nowhere.
The reading light fell and smashed at the foot of the bedside table, taking with it Rouget de Lisle’s bowl, which shattered into a thousand pieces. The fish lay on the carpet amid the shards of glass, his fins quivering. His little body flashed orange with each spasm. Guylain grabbed the cereal bowl from the draining board and filled it with water, then threw in the dying Rouget. After one last spasm, the goldfish resumed his cruising speed as if nothing had happened and set off on a reconnaissance tour of the bowl, watched by a relieved Guylain.
Guylain winced. The nightmare had left him with a blinding headache and his forehead was throbbing. Not only was the Thing making his days a misery, it was increasingly sucking the lifeblood out of his nights. In the morning, he breakfasted on two effervescent tablets.
10.10. It was time for the second reading session at Magnolia Court. Same taxi, same route. And on his arrival, the warmest of welcomes. On spotting him, a flock of chirping grannies swooped down onto the steps and fluttered around him, their dentures chattering nineteen to the dozen. He almost forgot his headache. He shook hands right and left, tiny hands as rosy and delicate as pink champagne biscuits. They tapped his cheeks and smiled at him, devouring him with their eyes. He was the reader, the bearer of the good word. They called him Monsieur Vignal, Vignil, Vognal, Vagnul, Guillaume, Gustin, and simply Guy. Monique seemed to have infected the entire community during the week. He reserved his kisses for the two Delacôte sisters, who swooned with gratitude. The air reeked
of eau de cologne, hair lacquer and traditional household soap. Sheltering in the huge lobby, the less robust residents slumped in their chairs, indifferent to the general excitement. People on their way out, forced to wait for a departure that was denied them.
Pushed by Josette, pulled by Monique, Guylain slipped between the two rows of living dead to enter the vast dining room, relieved to find it transformed into an auditorium. The podium was made of two tables on which the armchair had been placed. At this rate, thought Guylain, in a month he’d have his own dressing room, and in two, his statue in the grounds. The audience pushed and shoved and mumbled and grumbled, fighting over the best seats. Monique stepped in, ushering them to their places and getting them all to calm down. Asserting her authority, she allocated priority seats according to deafness and the various disabilities affecting the colony. There are even more of them than last time, mused Guylain. Probably thanks to John and Gina and their shenanigans in the lorry. He clambered up onto his throne, impatient to begin reading. With a discreet nod, Monique signalled that the session could begin. Josette confirmed with a stage wink.
‘When you’re a public lavatory attendant, wherever that may be, you’re not expected to keep a diary and sit there tapping away on the keyboard of your laptop. You’re only good for wiping from morning to evening, shining the chrome, scrubbing, polishing, rinsing, refurbishing the cubicles with toilet paper, and that’s it. A loo attendant is meant to clean, not to write. It’s OK for me to do crosswords, word searches, find-the-hidden-word, look for words locked up in all sorts of grids. It’s also OK for me to read photostories, women’s magazines or TV guides during my spare time, but for me to tap away with my fingers chapped by bleach on a laptop setting out my thoughts, that is beyond comprehension. Worse, it arouses suspicion. It’s as if there has been a misunderstanding, a miscasting. In the nether world, even a miserable twelve-inch laptop next to the tips saucer will always be a blot on the landscape. I tried to use my computer at first, but I immediately saw from the sometimes outraged looks I received that this was most definitely not on. This “abnormal” behaviour met with a sort of refusal to understand, embarrassment and even rejection. I quickly had to come to terms with the fact that people generally expect only one thing of you: that you reflect back the image of what they want you to be. And they wanted none of this image that I was presenting. Mine was an attitude of the world above, an attitude that had no business down here. If I’ve learnt one thing in nearly twenty-eight years of life on this earth, it is that people judge by appearances, no matter what lies beneath the outer facade. So now, to allay suspicion, I pretend. The computer stays out of sight, neatly put away in its case at the base of my chair. People are more likely to leave a tip for a young woman sucking the end of her pen as she struggles to play spot-the-difference in the latest fashion magazine, than for the same young woman engrossed in the LCD screen of her state-of-the-art laptop. Fit docilely into the mould, slip into this lavatory attendant’s costume – which is what I’m paid to do – and play the part, sticking closely to the script. It’s easier for everyone, starting with myself. Besides, it reassures people. And as my aunt always says, auntologism number 11: A reassured customer will always be more generous than an anxious one. I’ve got a notebook full of my aunt’s auntologisms. I’ve been collecting them since I was ten years old and have built up a stock of them in a spiral-bound notebook which I always keep close at hand. I know them all by heart. Auntologism number 8: Although a smile costs nothing, it can on the other hand earn you a lot. Number 14: Little errands don’t bring in fat tips. Number 5, the shortest, my favourite: Peeing is no laughing matter.
Over time, I’ve learned to write while not appearing to do so. I fill my little notebooks on the rickety camping table that serves as my desk, scribbling amid the profusion of glossy magazines spread out in front of me. I advance in small steps. Not a single day goes by without my writing. Not to do so would be as if I hadn’t lived that day, as if I had restricted myself to the role of loo-poo-puke cleaner that they want me to play, a poor creature whose only raison d’être is the lowly occupation for which she is paid.’
Guylain looked up. The audience seemed delighted. There was nothing oppressive about the silence that had come over the room. It was a light, digestive pause. On the faces scarred by the years, Guylain read something akin to wellbeing. He was delighted to share Julie’s smooth white world with them.
‘Where is it taking place?’ asked a quavering voice, prompting a forest of arms to shoot up. Even before Monique had the time to channel the flow, the answers came thick and fast:
‘In a swimming pool,’ suggested one resident.
‘At a spa,’ proposed another.
‘In a public lavatory,’ mumbled a bald man in the front row.
‘That doesn’t make any sense, Maurice. We know it’s in a lavatory, but there are public toilets everywhere. That doesn’t tell us where it is.’
‘A theatre,’ piped up André enthusiastically. ‘The old lady is a lavatory attendant in a theatre.’
‘Why old, Dédé?’
‘She’s right, Maurice dear. Why old, can you tell us that, André?’ spat the shrew who seemed to relish making poor old Dédé the butt of her spite.
‘She’s not old,’ broke in a grandad in his Sunday best. ‘It even says she’s twenty-eight years old. And besides, she has a computer. She writes.’
‘What is the world coming to if any old person starts writing?’ complained a grumpy soul sitting at the back of the room.
‘Monsieur Martinet, you may have studied literature, but you don’t have a monopoly on the subject,’ scolded the retired primary-school teacher.
Monique asserted her natural authority and broke up the discussion. ‘That’s enough! Let’s allow Guillaume to continue, please.’
Guylain stifled the laugh welling up inside him and moved on to the next excerpt:
‘Thursday is a special day. It’s the day my aunt comes. Sugar puff day. Sugar puffs are her drug. She needs her Thursday fix. Eight sugar puffs from her local bakery. Eight sugar puffs and nothing else. I’ve never seen her turn up with an éclair, a fruit tart or a vanilla slice. No, always eight little pastry puffs sprinkled with sugar crystals. Why eight and not seven or nine? That remains a mystery. Well, there’s nothing particularly extraordinary about that, you’ll say. True. But what does make it special is that my aunt doesn’t go home to scoff her treats quietly in front of the TV, or to the nearest café to eat them out of the bag while sipping a hot chocolate or a lime-blossom tea. No, she hurries straight here, clutching her delicate treasure carefully to her bosom. “You see,” she explained once, “they don’t taste the same anywhere else. I’ve tried, several times. I’ve even eaten some in the most beautiful places imaginable, the poshest tea rooms where dropped crumbs appear to turn into gold dust when they touch the floor, but it’s only here that they release their full aroma and flavour. A real taste of heaven. It’s as if the surroundings improve them. In here, my sugar puffs become extra special, whereas anywhere else, they’re just good.” I have to admit I was intrigued and wanted to try the experience for myself one time. Not with sugar puffs – they’re not my thing – but with a waffle. I munch one from time to time, when I feel peckish. The crêperie on the ground floor makes excellent waffles. I always have a plain one and eat it at the counter, impatient to get back to my post. One day, I took my warm, crisp waffle and shut myself in one of the cubicles to eat it. Just to see. And I have to acknowledge that my aunt isn’t entirely wrong. There was something different, as if my waffle was sublimated in the midst of all my tiles. I couldn’t remember ever having eaten such a delicious waffle. When my aunt starts talking about her sugar puffs, she’s unstoppable. “No comparison with those arrogant cakes that flaunt their cream, or all those pretentious biscuits covered in marzipan and collapsing under the weight of their own artifice,” she blazes. “The sugar puff is to pastries what minimalism is to painting!” she announces to anyone wh
o cares to listen. “Devoid of any illusionist effects, it presents itself to us in all its nakedness, its only adornment a few white crystals, offering itself up as it is: a little sweet with no other pretension than quite simply to be eaten.” Oh, you should hear her – she’s a real poet once she gets going.
“Have you reserved number 4 for me, darling?” she asks between kisses.
“Yes, Aunt. You know I always keep number 4 for you.”
On Thursdays, I scrub cubicle 4 from top to bottom, then I lock it until she arrives. It’s her perk. She has her cubicle here, the way others have their table at Fouquet’s or their suite at the Hilton. She leaves her jacket, handbag and hat with me, then she toddles over, clutching her bag of sugar puffs, her cushion wedged under her arm, her eyes already shining greedily. For nearly twenty minutes, comfortably seated on the soft cushion placed on top of the seat cover, she wolfs down her treasures one by one, crushing the pastry against the roof of her mouth with her tongue to release the vanilla flavoured aroma locked up inside the pastries onto her taste buds. “Julie, if only you knew!” she exclaims when she comes out. “God, it’s good!” A real junkie who’s just had eight fixes one after the other.’
The clock over the dining-room door already showed 11.25. The taxi would be there any minute. The audience did not seem in a hurry to resume their day-to-day life. Conversations were in full swing. The ladies recalled their recipes for choux pastry, each of them sharing her little secrets. The number of eggs, the amount of butter, the right piping-nozzle to use. Some of them were holding forth about the wisdom of eating sugar puffs with one’s buttocks glued to a toilet seat. While some found the notion absolutely ridiculous, others were not against the idea of smuggling their dessert from the lunch table into their room for a tasting session seated on their toilet.
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